


guide me

by sakon



Category: Ayatsuri Sakon | Puppet Master Sakon
Genre: M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:01:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26613367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakon/pseuds/sakon
Summary: His hands are drowning in the light. The buzz of night feels faraway, singing, saying something. Leaves still crumble against his feet, and theoretically, it should be better without the roll of wheels crumbling against the road and the silver of the metal pad under his sneakers. Except it isn't.The streetlights are a simple thing; Zenkichi should not react like this.
Relationships: Tachibana Sakon/Fujita Zenkichi
Kudos: 1





	guide me

He is confident, assured, and _okay_. Until, then, he isn't.

The streetlights beam in his face, bright yellow -- even in the dim of the night. Something so small shouldn't bother him; they're just yellow, just touching the ground, then they're other colors and somehow still bothering him. White car lights pass by, happening to bother him more than they should. These are simple things; Zenkichi shouldn't react like this. 

His hands are drowning in the light. The buzz of night feels faraway, singing, saying something. Leaves still crumble against his feet, and theoretically, it should be better without the roll of wheels crumbling against the road and the silver of the metal pad under his sneakers. Except it isn't.

He remembers. It doesn't feel like long ago. It isn't, though, but things have changed. He's gotten over it but somehow it lingers; his apartment blinds stay closed, his motorcycle gets a new paint job. It doesn't reflect much but the black night anymore. It can't, even if everything else does. 

Zenkichi closes his eyes, following the presence beside him. He isn't a blindman and can't walk shut-eyed forever — so he opens his eyes after scuffing his shoes against the pavement. 

The light washes prettily over Sakon's face, and it's as if something in his eyes glow when he looks at Zenkichi, like he _knows_. The bushes are illuminated by oranges, by greens and whites and by the colors associated with each time he closes his eyes. Everything's basking in it, but somebody's dumped ice-cold buckets over him. It feels vague enough to hurt, but not clear enough to decipher. But even then, drowning in the murky depths, he holds a hope that one day he will decipher them and know. 

Zenkichi looks away, the colors blinding. A hand comes in his view, cold and pale and in the corner of his eye. It must be the clearest thing he's seen in the lamplights.

A helmet would've protected him from the light, dulled the yellows he'd stared at -- the light reflecting off the concrete as he languished in waiting for somebody, anybody to see him -- and gotten them past the trees and roads. 

Zenkichi closes his eyes against the world, doesn't meet the eyes peering up at him, and feels a cold hand -- somehow warm -- clench his own. 

He takes a moment, senses the turmoil brewing within him, and follows. 


End file.
